The High Society Apple Pie
by Redderhead
Summary: JOHNLOCK - Sherlock needs John's help as always, but things do not turn out as innocent as they appear to be.


The High Society Apple Pie

_John discovers just how insecure Sherlock is._

_Believe it or not, I own absolutely squatt._

"I need your assistance" Sherlock said, breaking the silence of the living room, John snorted into wakefulness opposite him in his tattered armchair.

"Wha-?" John mumbled as he blinked furiously to try and waken himself fully.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I need your assistance" he repeated, his face blank.

"Is it difficult, Sherlock, 'cos I just need 20 minutes, just a 20 minute nap" John pleaded sleepily.

"Not for you, no" Sherlock replied wittily, ignoring the sleepy side to John Watson.

"Oh, must be something that us 'idiots' can do and you can't" John mused with a quirk of his eyebrow.

"Indeed" Sherlock said distractedly as he picked up his mobile phone from the arm of his chair.

"Tea?" John yawned as he stood up and stretched languidly.

Sherlock didn't reply as his attention had now completely been taken by his phone as he typed at it furiously.

John smiled despite himself and made his way to the kitchen to make tea for two, and perhaps trick Sherlock into eating a fruit scone.

~0~

It was an hour or so later that John was jolted from his slumber once more, waking in his armchair with half a scone still between his fingers.

"John, for goodness sake go to bed if you are _that_ tired" Came Sherlock's low voice, something about Sherlock's speech made the doctor turn round in his chair curiously to see his flatmate.

Behold, there was a 34 year old man, peering into a mirror on the wall, applying mascara.

"What…are you doing?" John asked in confusion.

"What do you think I am doing, John" Sherlock's reply came, his voice muffled by the expression on his face.

"Turning transvestite?" John offered with a grin.

"It's a case, John" Sherlock snapped as he turned his face toward the soldier, one eye elaborately decorated with midnight blue eye shadow, dark eyeliner and mascara.

"Wow, you've done that before" John stated as he got up to walk over and examine his friend's make-up applying abilities.

"It is easier on me than other people" Sherlock stated, turning back to the mirror.

"You're practicing?" John asked dubiously.

"Yes, you are the shorter, you would be the female, as I said earlier; I need your assistance" Sherlock said bluntly.

"What?" John asked incredulously.

"Tonight, I need your assistance; we are invited to a party. There will be a serial killer there, we need to find them. Do not worry, it will not be difficult, you do not have to do a thing except wear a dress." Sherlock said flatly, glancing toward his furious friend.

"I am _not_ going to dress up in a dress with that make-up, Sherlock, I won't do it." John stood his ground determinedly.

~0~

"I will walk round the perimeter, you mingle." Sherlock instructed, walking with John's arm neatly tucked into his. They walked through the entrance to the large hall of elegantly dressed men and women of a particular age bracket. John made to walk in the general direction of the stage when he felt Sherlock pull him back with a firm hand around his wrist. John looked up at Sherlock questioningly, and the detective stared intently down at him.

"You will need this" He murmured as he slid a silver ring onto John's left hand discreetly. "Don't get distracted" He continued, looking down to John's lips and then eyes, but then he was gone. John blinked after him and it took him a while to compose himself, he glanced down at the ring on his third finger – it was beautiful, a thick silver band held together with a single diamond in the middle.

John nervously flattened the folds on his dress as he walked through the crowd. He caught sight of himself in a decorative mirror above the fireplace and did a double take.

Sherlock really had done a good job. John's face was smooth looking with well-applied foundation, his eyes were the midnight blue, black and silver of before, his eyelashes were delicate and long under thick mascara. The blonde wig, however, worked wonders. John smiled as he allowed the memory of earlier this evening to float through his mind. He was shaving his own arms with the electric razor as Sherlock near enough cemented the real-haired wig to his head.

The long curls framed his face and hid the undisguised parts of his neck and to a degree, his adams' apple.

The dress was an understated satin cream that mirrored his new hair; it was smooth, with a fitted top, filled discreetly with a padded bra. Yes, John passed for a 30 something attractive female, and it scared him how much he enjoyed the feeling.

Whilst nodding politely to something the Duchess was saying, John felt an arm around his waist.

"Darling, there you are, I have been looking all over. Do you want to visit the buffet?" Sherlock asked in a very false English sprawl, it made John shiver just how much Sherlock could impersonate his brother.

John nodded, not trusting his voice. Sherlock kept his arm around John's waist as he guided the doctor from the social hall and toward the fresh buffet.

"Anything?" John asked in a whisper as they picked up a plate each.

"Not a whisper" Sherlock murmured back, looking around him furtively.

"Oh, look Sherlock, apple pies" John said excitedly, caught off guard by the attractive spread in front of them.

Sherlock laughed and a wide smile remained as he watched John lean across – rather un-ladylike – to fetch up two of the small cakes, one of which found its way onto Sherlock's plate.

"So yummy" John said through a mouthful of apple "Sherlock, you have to try it" John implored.

"How on earth did you survive the war, John" Sherlock said with a fondness lining his face.

"Huh?" John asked, his mouth wide open to receive the rest of his pie.

"I don't eat on cases, you know this" Sherlock said, changing the subject and straightening his face.

"It's a pie, Sherlock, it's not a full blown three course meal, it might help your brain cells" John cooed, putting his plate down and retrieving Sherlock's apple pie.

Sherlock watched as John popped off the tin cup underneath, but didn't remove himself in time as the pie in John's hand found his own mouth.

"John" Sherlock scalded lightly, his mouth now covered in crumbs and sugar.

"Open" John instructed, staring imploringly at his flatmate. Sherlock couldn't help but laugh before he obediently opened his mouth and received the rest of the pie.

John's smile was worth it.

When the two did turn to exit the buffet area, they realised they had drawn an audience. There were a few women swooning and cooing the pair as they walked past saying things like;

"Ah, young love" and "Nothing quite like it".

John looked up at Sherlock with raised eyebrows; Sherlock smiled and took John's arm, leading him back to the great hall and to John's horror, the dance floor.

"This will help me catalogue every guest" Sherlock murmured as he pulled John alarmingly close and wrapped an arm around his waist, they began to sail lightly from side to side. John watched the people on the dance floor, there were only two other couples – it hardly seemed like a place _to_ dance, but it was quite romantic none-the-less. John's hand tightened nervously on Sherlock's shoulder as he realised he had just put 'romantic' in the same area as Sherlock Holmes.

"It's ok, John. I know you aren't gay" Sherlock whispered reassuringly.

John's heart skipped a beat as he looked up at Sherlock. There was no denying that Sherlock Holmes had John from "Afghanistan or Iraq?" the man was fascinating, good looking, unusually elegant; he was the modern Scarlet Pimpernel, he was the human version of Doctor Who with an element of James Bond. The man was a Hero. He was John Watsons' Hero.

The doctor leaned forward to place his forehead against Sherlock's cheek and closed eyes inhaling a scent that was purely Sherlock. It was then, that he felt the detective pull him minutely closer, his hand migrating to the middle of John's back. John felt a warmth spread though him and he pushed his head further, hiding his face in the comfort of Sherlock's long neck.

"I am, however, now beginning to question that" Sherlock whispered directly into John's hairline.

"You aren't human, so it doesn't count" John murmured into Sherlock's wonderful – smelling skin.

Sherlock let out a low chuckle and pulled John closer still, their chests now pressed against each other.

John knew he should be looking out for a murderer, but he couldn't help that he was severely distracted by the new closeness of his flatmate.

"John" Sherlock said quietly, his voice sending an unusual comfort down the length of John's spine.

"Yes, Sherlock" John said, somewhat dreamily, his eyes closed.

"The song has ended" Sherlock whispered, stopping their movement.

The two pulled slowly apart but remained close as they studied each other, John leaned forward after a moment, unsure of what action his body was about to take, when a voice called from behind them.

"Ah, Mr Holmes" came a thick English sprawl. Sherlock turned, somehow managing to twirl John close to his side rather elegantly.

"Hector" Sherlock greeted coldly.

"And who is this beauty?" the older man asked, eying John up and down. John shifted closer to Sherlock in momentary fright, realising how a beautiful young lady must feel when being 'sleazed' upon.

"This is my wife, Josephine." Sherlock said curtly, lifting his arm from John's to wrap it securely around him instead.

Hector laughed unattractively before choking out; "Sherlock Holmes, got _married_?" Hector said incredulously.

John felt Sherlock tense at his side and looked between the men curiously, why was there a man that apparently knew Sherlock, on a case?

"What? _Sherlock Holmes_ got married? Who was daft enough to marry you?" Came another mans' voice as an even older gentleman approached the three, before long there were four men of the same generation standing around John and Sherlock, for lack of a better word, catching-up.

It hit John later in the conversation just who these men were and what this evening was really about.

The men opposite Sherlock, were his old school teachers, John and Sherlock were at, what was effectively, a school reunion.

"How on Earth did you manage to talk this pretty young thing into marrying you, Sherlock?" Victor said with a hand in his pocket, eyeing John through his round spectacles.

John looked up at Sherlock quickly to see the detectives' reaction.

"Ah, well, she…" Sherlock glanced down at John with something akin to panic. John watched the transition occur visibly across his flatmates' face from panic to his usual confidence. "She was my flatmate. She started getting involved with my work…she became my work." Sherlock said with a thin smile toward Victor. "One of the few who can tolerate and look after me" he finished.

"Well well, there must truly be one true match for everyone" William chimed in. "You were always such a difficult person, Sherlock. A freak among us natives"

"We really thought you would end up badly, but you have straightened out by the looks of things" Hector congratulated patronisingly, offering his hand.

Sherlock went to take it, but John held him back.

"No" John said, making the men look at him in concern.

"Jo, shh" Sherlock cooed.

"You four are a disgrace" John said, his voice now full of a certain anger he hadn't felt in years.

"I beg your pardon?" William asked incredulously.

"This man is amazing. He always has been. He has saved countless lives, and what have you four done? Sat around and convinced all of your students that they will never be better than you. Sherlock is more of a man than any of you will ever be, he is the most intelligent man in this room and you _will _give him the respect he deserves" John said with a dangerous tone of voice, pulling back from Sherlock's side.

"Strong willed one, Sherlock, you should get that smacked out of her, deep voice too, must be a tenor!" Hector chided with a smirk.

Without warning, John had stepped forward and punched Hector square in the face. The soldier stood over the unconscious form of Sherlock's old physics teacher and raised his fists at the other three, they scarpered quickly and John lunged to grasp Sherlock's wrist, pulling him toward the exit and the nearest taxi beyond.

~0~

"What was that?" Sherlock asked once they had settled in the taxi for the long journey home.

"What was _that_, Sherlock? Lying to me about a case, when really it's a school reunion and you just wanted to impress your old teachers?" John near shouted. He glanced from the window and back to Sherlock with a sombre expression as he calmed down.

"I couldn't stand them talking to you like that" John mumbled. "You work so hard…you don't deserve to be spoken to like a bad child" He continued.

Sherlock's expression softened and he looked toward the window to hide it.

"They are of a certain generation, John. The stiff upper lip. They were raised that way." Sherlock mused flatly.

"Not an excuse. I did what I saw fit to do and I will not regret it" John said defiantly.

"Thank you" Sherlock announced after a short silence.

"For what?" John asked dumbly.

"For doing what no one else has ever done for me" Sherlock whispered.

"I will always be on your side Sherlock. Always, even in the darkest times. I'll be there, I owe you that much" John said facing forward.

"I don't want you to _owe me_. I don't want you to feel…_obliged-_" Sherlock started only to be shushed by John.

"I am not. I am here because I want to be" here, John smiled. "Whether I'm your friend, flatmate…_wife_. I'll still be there to stand up for you." He finished, reaching across and laying a hand on Sherlock's arm.

"You really do make a good woman, John" Sherlock said with a ghost of a smile.

"Oh shut up" John said, swatting at his friend.

~0~

"Do you need assistance?" Sherlock's voice asked from behind John as he leant close to the mirror to scrape off the make up on his face.

"How do women get this stuff off?" John asked in a panic as he turned to Sherlock in their small bathroom, the mascara smudged down each cheek.

Sherlock smiled, retrieving make-up remover from the bathroom cabinet, he grasped John's shoulders and moved him toward the side of the bath, sitting him on the rim.

John closed his eyes as Sherlock knelt on the floor in front of him and ran a damp cotton ball delicately across his features. John sighed a little as he started to relax at the feeling.

The room felt as though it had become smaller, the two men felt comfortable and safe in their close proximity.

"Did you mean what you said about me becoming a part of your work?" John asked as Sherlock removed the wig with a flourish.

"Of course" Sherlock said, busying himself with brushing the wig out of its curls.

After another minute or two of silence, Sherlock signalled John to get to his feet so that he could undo the corset strings on the dress.

"What happened tonight, John?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John looked up from watching Sherlock's slender fingers untie the dress. "What?" he asked.

"On the dance floor, what happened?" Sherlock queried, his eyebrows knitting together as he kept his eyes on his work.

"Oh, I dunno. Got swept up in the moment I guess" John said hastily. "It could have been these clothes or the make-up" he joked.

Sherlock stopped on the last ribbon and looked into John's eyes. They shared a brief glance before Sherlock yanked the last ribbon undone. The dress fell to the floor tiles leaving John standing in padded bra and pants.

Without so much as a word, the two burst simultaneously into full blown laughter.

~0~

Two months passed before either man spoke of that night. That is, until the night of Smith Western's arrest.

John had been kidnapped. He had been missing for 46 hours before Sherlock tracked him down thanks to a clear footprint in the centre of a field.

Sherlock burst through the old and broken door of the disused farmhouse cellar to see the three men mid-attempt to hurt John, _his_ John. Within seconds, Sherlock had ripped through the men, taking the three on at once with only a rusty pipe for defence. By the time Lestrade had trundled down the stairs, the middle-aged thugs were unconscious and bloodied.

Once the men were taken away by armed police officers with Lestrade in tow; Sherlock had run to John's side. The doctor was bruised, cut, burnt and pierced, blood lined his face, but so did a look of relief at the sight of Sherlock. Sherlock looked down in horror at the stainless steel chair John was chained to. It was evident that the chair had been heated by candles beneath it as he unlocked the restraints and heaved John up in his arms.

John mewled in pain but gripped Sherlock's shoulders tightly.

"I'm here, John. I am going to take you home" Sherlock said firmly, tightening his grip only slightly. As Sherlock began to climb the staircase into the farmhouse itself, John promptly passed out, his forehead against Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock had taken John to the hospital simply because his medical knowledge of the living was limited. No sooner had the nurse tied the last bandage, had Sherlock called a cab and returned to Baker Street, a sleeping John constantly at his side.

Once back at 221B; Sherlock called Mrs Hudson to help him carry the wounded Doctor inside and up the staircase into the small bathroom.

Mrs Hudson was quickly hurried away by Sherlock who closed the door with a click, his expression one of deep concern.

Sherlock woke John just long enough to remove his torn and bloodied clothes and lower him gently into the cool bath. The relief of the water seemed to send John out cold again and Sherlock struggled to balance John as he gently washed his wounds as instructed by the nurses. John's back, legs and arms were burnt badly, his arm was cut and his body was badly bruised. Sherlock sucked in his bottom lip as he concentrated on caring for the man in front of him, he barely noticed the chain around John's neck that securely held a familiar silver diamond ring.

Sherlock paused to think on why John was so important. Why was Sherlock so anxious to get it right, to care for John, for him to get better as soon as possible? The detective hadn't even removed his favourite coat and scarf in order to make John comfortable as soon as possible. As Sherlock paused his administrations and looked down at John, he realised with a jolt exactly what his symptoms portrayed.

The night a few months ago suddenly made sense.

Sherlock knew the doctor held a peculiar regard for him, he knew that he had become an idol to the soldier, someone to rely on and unfortunately someone who always came through. Sherlock recently started to feel not only compelled to solve the crimes just for the puzzle, but more so to impress John each and every time.

"My God" Sherlock murmured as he sat back on his heels, John's head resting heavily upon his collar bone.

After a while, Sherlock came to his senses and lifted John carefully from the water, completely soaking himself in the process.

Drying the soldier proved difficult, but the detective managed it only just, before re-bandaging the cuts on his arm and applying cream to his burns.

Afterward, Sherlock delivered his ward to his own room as it was closer. Dressing the unconscious flatmate in his own lounge clothing, however, was unexplainable.

Sherlock stood by the bed wringing his hands in a new found anxiousness as he had straightened out the final crease in the bed sheets.

Getting unusually bored within the first ten minutes of a new experiment, Sherlock paced the living room and felt suddenly tired.

Giving in to his bodies' urges, the lanky detective swept in the direction of his bedroom and clambered into the unused side of his bed. Watching John intently, the last thought that travelled through the forefront of the detectives' mind before he fell into dreams was surprising, but not unforeseen by this time.

'Must keep my Doctor safe'.

~0~

Sherlock worked hard for the following 76 hours; he ensured John was watered, fed and cleaned, dressed his wounds, made sure he was comfortable and that he slept regularly. Sherlock supposed this was guilt playing with him; guilt that he had let John get taken, let John get so badly hurt, now was the time to make it up to him. But the detective now knew the real reason for his sudden care and devotion. He loved John. He loved John more than anything he had ever loved before. He loved the way John ate toast and drank tea all day more than the discovery of an unsolved triple homicide.

He loved the way John nagged at him to eat regularly, he loved the way John smelt, he loved the way John was in awe of him on a case and he loved that John may already love him back.

On the 5th day of John's healing process, Sherlock entered the room carrying a cup of hot soup and another cup filled with tea, the detective smiled when he saw that John was awake and was sitting up against the wall of pillows against the headboard, reading one of his scientific novels.

"You read this before you go to sleep?" John asked with a weak voice.

"No, I read it _instead_ of sleep" Sherlock replied, sitting down beside John on the mattress and leaning over to place the soup and tea side-by-side on the bedside table.

"How do I look, Dr Holmes?" John asked with a wince as he touched his bruised face.

"You look…" Sherlock started, running a sharp eye over his friend "…very much like a soldier back from war" the detective finished, looking down at John's duvet clad knee.

John smiled sadly. "This wasn't your fault, Sherlock" John said reassuringly, leaning forward and grasping the detectives' hand tightly. "If anyones' it was mine, for letting it happen, for not paying attention as you always tell me to".

"It is no ones' fault but theirs. They are now paying for what they did, I assure you" Sherlock said firmly, holding John's hand just as tightly.

"In prison? Ha, prison is a sanctuary these days, Sherlock. They have tv, hobby time, free food and daily exercise" John said bitterly, looking down at the book in his other hand.

"Well" Sherlock started, a mischievous grin travelling his face. "They _would_ have an easy time, if I had not taken the precaution of disabling each of them before Lestrade took them." Sherlock finished darkly.

"You…what?" John asked slowly, his eyes wide as they snapped back to the detective.

"I used what I had to hand at the time as a weapon. It's amazing the damage that can be done with a piece of rusty pipe." Sherlock said mysteriously, squeezing John's hand.

"What happened to them?" John asked, his mouth agape.

"Well, one will be eating through a straw for the rest of his days, one, well, he wont walk again and the last one…well, let's just say he's ended up in a low security prison infirmary. No one hurts my blogger" Sherlock finished with an eye-twinkling smirk.

John smiled slowly, that warm and cosy feeling back in the pit of his stomach.

"Thank you, Sherlock" John said genuinely.

"Not at all, it's what we do, John." Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

John sat for a moment, Sherlock watching him, now fully aware of that chain around the doctors' neck.

"But what are we?" John questioned quickly, looking up to Sherlock blankly.

The consulting detective smiled "We are Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson" He replied smoothly.

John smiled tiredly and looked down at his book once more.

"Enjoy your soup, John, call me if you need me" Sherlock said gently, getting to his feet. John nodded, unable to form words through his disappointment.

Hesitant for only a second, Sherlock placed a hand under John's chin and raised his head toward his. Without a word, a chaste kiss was placed upon the doctor's lips before the detective pulled away with a smile and headed for the kitchen.

"Sherlock" John called out hastily, making the detective stop just shy of closing the bedroom door and pop his head back round to see John. "I need you" The doctor said with a goofy smile.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile in return as he walked back inside and closed the door behind him.

The End


End file.
